The Story Of My Life
by Mikkistix
Summary: Good year, Grade Nine. Winter was short, I was at the top of my class, had lots of friends... and I got stalked by Brody Macklin. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that that was the bad part.
1. the story of my life

**This is not fiction. Everything you are about to read, and everything you will ever read on this fanfic is completely real. I have changed all of the names in order to protect my friends, but people need to realize that crazy stuff like this is happening. Those who know me know what I'm talking about. **

**I do not own Criminal Minds.**

_The Story of My Life_

I guess it all started when we were in grade 9. You can go farther back if you want to get technical – but I've got some bad memories locked in that cellar and won't be going with you. Ninth grade seems to be the best place to start analyzing. Good year 200(insert # here), winter was short, I was top of my class, had lots of friends

And I got stalked by Brody Macklin.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that that was the downside.

Strange fellow, Macklin. Fit in like Scooby Doo at a rave. He was one of those tall, gangly, overgrown twelve year old sorts; One who you'd expect to start talking game boy at the first opportunity. Which he did, if you ever gave him the chance. Nobody at school really liked Brody at all, obviously, so he spent a lot of time laughing nervously at himself.

I admit it; I was never really nice to Brody. I was never out and out mean either – I actually felt kind of sorry for him on a theoretical level – I have a cousin with a map of the world of Zelda on his bedroom wall.

So, reminded vividly of Cole whenever Brody raked up enough courage to say 'hi' in the hallway (always preluded by an almost robotic 'ha ha' sound), I would smile back or be his badminton partner when no one else would. But even Cole couldn't stop me from snorting when Brody tripped over his own racket and dented the standard with his face (or dented his face with the standard, take your pick) every once in a while. I tolerated the guy on a sort of moral standard of not mocking geeks.

But being nice simply cannot go unrewarded, it seems, and with every badminton match, the somewhat normal situation started to crawl up the creepy scale.

I began to realize that Brody stared at me. A lot. Across the class mostly, and in the cafeteria, and the parking lot, and the grocery store, and while walking past my house. I don't know if I just got more aware of him, if I was seeing things, or if he really was following me… but he seemed to be everywhere.

Braver with time, Macklin started to walk _right_ behind me in the crowded hallways, inch his desk closer to mine, and 'casually' stand beside my locker when I got my books. There wasn't a moment's peace. So finally, after 2 months of frequent and sudden detours to the girls' toilet, I got up the nerve to confront this Brody Macklin. No one had the right to play with my head like that.

I sped out of the bathrooms, ready to scour the entire building for him if I had to. But of course there was no need – he was standing directly outside of the lavatory entrance.

"Brody, can I talk to you?" I demanded in my 'polite' voice.

"Ha ha yeah sure ok." He stuttered in his 'totally collected' voice.

"Brody," I shoved my hands into my hoodie, trying very hard not to threaten him, yet still make my message clear, " I'm sure you're a nice guy and everything," _not!_ "But I can't help but notice that lately you've been trying to get really close." I looked him in the eye steadily, hoping he was getting my 'quit following me' vibes.

His eyes narrowed. His back slowly straightened. His shoulders squared, and I swear that his hand twitched. Towards me.

One question had me staring at a completely different Brody.

"What do you mean by 'close'?"


	2. the chesterfield conspiracy

_The Chesterfield Conspiracy_

"What do you mean by 'close'?"

Garcia squeaked excitedly and jabbed at the link to the next chapter, 'The Black Rose'. She was halfway through the first quarter of the second word, however, when Agent Hotchner magically appeared right behind her comfy pink chair.

It took some fancy fast and furious clicking to get Garcia off of and onto a site that probably looked kind of work related in 1.5 seconds flat. That had to have been a record.

"Find anything interesting?" He asked, leaning towards her monitor ever-so-purposefully.

"Yep-er-oonies!" She grinned innocently at Hotch's new tie.

"Oh really? The CCA… you found something on the Canadian Chesterfields Association webpage?"

"Huh? Hotch, this is the CIA… … … site." Yikes! Put a 'C' instead of an 'I' in the search!

"The CIA sells couches now?" Hotch went all squinty. This was bad.

"Not exactly sir. A lot of their agents have been having relaxation issues, so they've added a Canadian sofa as a benefit, sir."

"Why Canadian? Do you think it's some sort of power grab?" he raised an eyebrow. It was in serious need of some tweezer attention, she noticed.

"That's exactly what I've been trying to find out." Garcia crossed her toes, seeing as her fingers were in plain sight.

"Interesting." He muttered, lowering his left eyebrow and itching his right one.

Hotch leaned back against the wall, brown eyes intent on his technical analyst's computer screen. He knew perfectly well that is was a cover up for something – and since the psycho maniac serial killers of the world had thankfully given the BAU a nice, long, boring break – he had time to sit and enjoy Garcia desperately trying to invent a chesterfield conspiracy.

She stared at her boss for a second, blinked three times, no wait – four times, then whirled and started typing so fast her fingers seemed to disappear with the motion. Pulling up files upon files on the Canadian Chesterfield Association, it's employees, and any shady connections either might have – oo, someone got jipped 100 dollars once in the 80's – Garcia's eyes started to glaze over. Pretending to sift through the mountains of junk, her mind drifted to the abandoned fanfic. The author had said it was a true story, which was freaky, and that Brody Macklin looked intensely dangerous in that last bit, which was freaky, and Garcia had seen too many gristly stalker murder crime scene photos, which was freaking her out. But obviously the writer/victim was still safe and alive, or she couldn't have posted anything for the FBI analyst to freak over.

"I think I'm addicted to fanfics," she mumbled, wishing the hammy CEO she was hacking could produce some distraction.

**PS I don't own Criminal Minds. Would the owner of Criminal Minds have the insight to include a Chesterfield conspiracy? No, I thought not. Therefore I am not him and he is not me and we are not affiliated in any way. Honestly, I don't even know who he (or she!) is. Do you? **


	3. the black rose

_The Black Rose_

**Ha ha, fooled you! This isn't another chapter, it's just an authors note. Sorry, I know that was cruel. Brody has never even given me roses – geraniums, daisies, and lilies maybe – but not roses. Anyway, I'm writing to apologize for the intense cliffhanger, I got interrupted. Sorry. Really. I'm also writing to tell you all that I won't be writing for a while, because of exams. Hang tight, okay? I promise I'll post again as soon as I can.**

**I have to. **


	4. Stalked

**I don't own griminal minds. Lol, I also suck at typing. **

**Now where did I leave off? O yeah…**

"What do you mean by 'close'?" Brody demanded, clenching his jaw and trying to bore the answer out of me with his glare.

I was too startled to answer. I had just realized how very tall he was.

"What do you mean?" He repeated slowly, deliberately, as if he was trying to stop himself from grabbing my throat. Now that I think back, maybe he was.

"I – I – just notice that you're – ar-round more." I stammered, unable to look away his icy eyes. The muscle in his temple twitched, then slackened. Brody looked a little less intense than before, but still big. "I guess that I'm not used to that…" I trailed off, mad at myself. Was I giving him the wrong idea?

"Oh." He muttered, unclenching a fist to swipe his dirty blond shag away from his forehead. The motion seemed to make his eyes desquint. "Oh." He said again.

"Yeah. So… yeah." Suddenly really awkward, I turned and sped down the crowded hall cursing myself. I had tried to confront my stalker, choked because he was _tall_ of all things, _I'm five nine for pete's sake, _I chastened, _so why am I afraid of a tall person?, _then gave him the wrong idea by making it look like I wanted him to stay away because he was growing on me. Ungh. I immediately went and vented to any teenage girl that would listen. It didn't help.

Instead of Macklin backing off – as per the original plan – he seemed to take encouragement from our strange run-in. School became a living nightmare for me, I was so afraid of everything I said being taken down in Brody's little notebook I'd seen him carrying around. He started to play nickleback on his ipod loud enough so that I could hear it – nickleback was my favourite band that year. He made sure that I saw him reading all of my favourite books – and I mean all of them, no matter how girly. He wore too much cologne, tried to show me he was smart by answering every _single_ question our science teacher threw at the class (he was hardly ever right), and he 'casually' asked several of my friends what classes I was going to take the next year. Knowing my _exact_ feelings for the stalker, they lied to him. The problem with that was he asked several different people, and got several different answers, from which he deduced that they were lying. The day after that, I caught an overpowering 'whiff' of axe, and never saw my course selection form again. I had had to get another one from the office.

Ah, summer, my salvation. It couldn't roll around quick enough, but it eventually came. I ran out into the July sun - it smelled of newly cut grass, suntan lotion, and a family vacation to Saint Louis Missouri. Not only was it a convenient 3000 kilometers away, St. Louis was in a different country. Unless Macklin had a passport ready and a plane ticket on demand, I had 3 weeks _moins_ stalker!

That summer was bliss. Our family drove till the cows came home, drinking in every inch of Missouri and Illinois combined. And after 2 weeks of touring, my parents dropped my older sister and I at a camp in a little historical town called Nauvoo. The cute brick houses held cute geriatric old people wearing cute pioneer dresses. It was in one of these cute little shops that I met the boy who would change my life forever.

And, apparently, Brody Macklin's life too.


	5. Counting

_Counting_

The hum of computers hung like pipe smoke over the BAU. It was a loud, unnatural sound, yet it seemed to lull the agents into a lazy trance as they swayed too and fro on their office chairs, mumbling quietly to themselves. If you were to try especially hard, you could hear their voices under the stagnant buzz. But the agents of the Behavioral Analysis Unit were very peculiar…

"… One thousand twenty two, one thousand twenty three…"

"…Nine hundred eighty seven, Nine hundred eighty eight…"

Yes, very peculiar indeed.

"… One thousand thirty five…. No, wait… one thousand _twenty_ five…"

"Huh. Did you know that over – "

"No numbers!" Both Morgan and Prentice shouted together.

"Why not?" Reid pouted, having just found a very interesting statistic about the ratio of people who preferred peanut butter rather than jam.

"Counting." Derek pointed out the obvious, resuming his chant at nine hundred and ninety four.

"Counting what?" Reid peeled himself off of his chair to look at the object of his co-workers constant mumblings. It was a computer screen full of periods. "You're counting punctuation marks?"

Prentice nodded, mouthing the numbers to herself.

"Um, why, exactly?" This was strange, even for them.

Morgan did the talking again. "We're trying to see how many periods can fit into one page on Microsoft word."

_Wow, they really are out of their minds bored,_ Reid reflected as he sat back down in front of his own monitor and started typing again.

"Are you guys in twelve point font, times new roman?" he asked.

"Yes Reid, we are." Reid used his super profiling skills to deduce that Morgan was getting annoyed with all the interruptions.

"Four thousand, nine hundred sixty two." He rattled off, grinning.

"Dang it kid! I lost my place, now I'm going to have to start over!" Derek growled.

"No, you won't have to start over. The answer is four thousand nine hundred sixty two."

"What, you counted all that already?"

"Yep."

"You suck man."

"Riiight…"

Emily didn't seem to notice their entire conversation. She just sat there, counting, and dreaming slightly. The dream was strange though – she was counting sheep that looked strangely like fluffy commas jump over the fence, laughing at them and cooing to them at intervals. Then, suddenly, she was in a little Bo Peep outfit and got the distinct feeling that she had to run now. So she picked up her skirts and started to skip, but the comma sheep started to follow her. Emily didn't like it, she didn't like it when sheep followed her home. She started to run, faster and faster and faster, until she got tackled by a lamb, which sat on her stomach, bleating and wheezing. After what seemed to be an eternity, none other than Wayne Gretzky picked it off as if it were a dust bunny, not the one ton hunk of mutton that had been weighing Prentice down. Gretzky paraded the lamb through hundreds of different – yet strangely the same – snowy landscapes with Emily in tow, grinning like a maniac the whole time.

Emily woke with a start, face on the keyboard, drooling. _Note to self: No more clodhoppers. _When her eyes focused again, she realized how very close Garcia's nose was to her face. And how very red that nose was. And how very distressed the owner of that nose seemed to be.

"_You need to read this!!"_ Penelope screeched, waving a file in front of Emily's face.

There were two booklets in the folder. The thick, intimidating one was titled "The Canadian Chesterfields Association" and the other was called "The Story of My Life".

"This isn't a good thing," Garcia nearly sobbed, "But we've finally got work to do."

**So that's that! Hope you like it. Please please please review, praise, critique, anything! Look at me. I'm begging.**

**Also, I don't own Criminal Minds. I don't even own **_**a **_**criminal mind, even though some of my friends might beg to differ. I have a habit of stealing cookies ever so sneakily. **


End file.
